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On sixteen years of Wedded Bliss

On sixteen years of Wedded Bliss…

So, last night, my wonderful in-laws took the boys on a sleepover, and Caroline and I celebrated our anniversary with a date night. She found an incredible Mexican restaurant in South Philly, Plaza Garibaldi, and we toasted 16 fantastic years over margaritas.

When I think about what I’m most thankful for, I’d have to say it’s Doctor Who on the BBC.

In 1998, I was a guy with an upwardly mobile newspaper job. I left for work wearing a tie and suspenders every day. And, sure, I worked a night shift then, but I was going to be the Assistant Graphic Editor. And, then, the Graphics Editor. And after that… who knows? But it looked pretty damn sweet.

Fast forward to Now. I go to work in jeans and a T-shirt. I call myself a cartoonist, for chrissakes. I self-publish books, sweat over stuff like shipping and Internet stats. I still work the night shift. And the day shift. And any other shift I can fit in there.

When I’ve written something I think is funny, I’m insufferable. And when that doesn’t happen, I’m worse.

And since the kids came along, we live in a frat house. My wife lives in fervent hope of getting through one meal — just one — without poop jokes. Or farts. Or fart jokes. Or a quote from Teen Titans Go. Or a round of 20 Questions — Which Marvel Villain Am I.

Life is a whirlwind of school, homework, swimming lessons, choir, judo, did-we-pay-that-bill, did you remember to schedule this, what do you want from the grocery store, and when are we gonna find time for that. It’s questions like “do you think that’s pink eye?” and “does this look like mouse poop?”

And that’s why I’m thankful for Doctor Who on the BBC.

Because, if he were real… and if he showed up before she walked down the aisle 16 years ago… there’s nobody in their right mind who could fault her from stepping into the Tardis and getting the hell out. She’d still have time to build a life that would look more like the one she had in mind.

But the good Doctor is on a sound stage in Wales. And we’re here in Philadelphia. Together. Happy. Healthy. Parents of a couple of beautiful kids. And as nuts about each other as we were 16 years ago.

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(Oh, and although they never met and probably never will, give your wife the full sympathy from mine. We now have two girls at home, and though the discussion rarely shifts towards weird stuff such as comics – even though I have been taking the oldest one at her request to most of the super-hero films that have been put out since, mmm, Fantastic Four and Silver Surfer – well, she insisted – we do have wild weird meals when we are all together. And some day the youngest one may well dive into that.)

Here’s to another 256 years of being nuts! (Now what’s with “about each other”?)